


Madrid Is

by luxover



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-08
Updated: 2012-07-08
Packaged: 2017-11-09 11:08:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/454768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxover/pseuds/luxover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And he’s grateful, infinitely grateful that the Madrileños have taken to him the way they have, but that doesn’t change the fact that he is in Madrid and Madrid is not home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Madrid Is

Madrid is—

Madrid is. Mesut doesn’t know what it is because he doesn’t go out much. It’s hard; he doesn’t speak the language and while it’s easy enough for him to pick up, easy as any other language, he’s only been studying it for a few weeks. That doesn’t stop people from coming up to him on the street when he’s out buying food or walking to his car, doesn’t stop them from talking to him in fast, rapid Spanish, words that he barely recognizes, words that he barely understands.

And he’s grateful, infinitely grateful that the Madrileños have taken to him the way they have, but that doesn’t change the fact that he is in Madrid and Madrid is not home.

When Mesut told Bastian that he was leaving, Bastian laughed his head off and said, “One good tournament and you’re forgetting all about us Bundesligers. I see how it is with you, Özil.”

Mesut wanted to say, “I couldn’t forget about you guys even if I tried,” but instead he said, “Thank you. For understanding.” And he did, that was the thing; Bastian did understand. If there was one thing he understood it was football and changing things around for football and giving things up —giving everything up—for football.

So Mesut doesn’t know the real Madrid, the real city, but he knows Real Madrid the club and Real Madrid the team and Real Madrid the legacy. He knows the ins and outs of the Bernabéu and Ciudad Real Madrid, how the grass sounds under his feet and which showers have the best pressure. He knows the way Alonso stands as he waits to take a corner, the noise that Casillas makes when claps his gloved hands, how often Ramos slicks back his hair with water during practice.

Mesut knows his team, but—

Fuck if he knows what they’re saying. 

 

“Come on,” Sami’s yelling from the living room. “It’s only our second week! If we’re late and they send me back to Stuttgart, I’m going to break your neck.” 

“Sorry, sorry, my alarm didn’t go off,” Mesut yells back. He’s in his bedroom looking for socks and he can tell by the consistent _thump, thump, thump_ that Sami’s kicking a football around, juggling it with his feet to keep it off the ground. He did the same thing the night before, the entire time Mesut was watching _Das Experiment._

“You have such a sad DVD collection,” Sami had said, rolling the football around the on the floor with his toes. “You could have at least put on _Das Wunder von Bern_. I’d have at least watched that.”

“No, you wouldn’t have,” Mesut told him, and Sami just replied, “You’re right, I wouldn’t have,” and then: _thump, thump, thump_.

“Seriously, Mesut, we have to be there in thirty minutes,” Sami yells again, and Mesut comes running out of his room, toothbrush dangling from his mouth and an empty water bottle in hand. “You can get water at the Valdebebas,” Sami points out.

“I know,” Mesut says, spitting into the kitchen sink. He turns on the tap and shoves his bottle underneath it anyways.

“And don’t forget your Spanish workbook,” Sami says, and Mesut groans. He’s tired, tired physically and mentally and he wants to go back to bed. Instead, he picks up his bag and follows Sami out the door.

 

Mesut stretches.

It’s easy to be a part of the team when you’re just stretching; that doesn’t really seem to change much wherever you live, whatever language you speak.

Mourinho’s walking around, saying stuff to Iker and Dudek, patting Higuaín on the back. He seems nice, Mesut thinks, even though he’s stopped allowing translators into practice. “You’ll learn faster this way,” it was explained to him. “You can’t be on a team you can’t communicate with.” And Mesut gets that much, but it’s still hard, still awkward, still just him and Sami sticking together.

It’s a Tuesday which means they get to play footvolley, and Mesut loves that. He’s pretty terrible at it compared to some of the guys, but that’s okay; Mesut’s better at other things. He has to be, to be on a team like this, with players like this. Sometimes, though, and he’s never mentioned it to anyone, but sometimes—sometimes he wonders why he’s there, in the same colors as players like Kaká and Ronaldo and Alonso. He wonders where he fits in amongst Spanish greats like Sergio and Iker. And maybe they’re not that much older than him, but their track records are longer, their list of achievements greater. 

He looks at Sami sometimes, and Sami fits, already on first-name basis with everyone, and if he doesn’t fit yet, Mesut can tell that he will. Mesut’s afraid that he won’t ever, that maybe he should have stayed at Werder Bremen. He doesn’t like that feeling.

Someone nudges him; Sergio. Mesut guesses Sergio was talking to him and he just didn’t know.

“¿ _Lo siento_?” Mesut says, and he phrases it like a question in the hopes that Sergio will repeat himself, slowly.

Sergio just laughs, smiles all teeth and lips, and pushes Mesut in the direction of one of the nets.

“That team,” he says, and Mesut understands as much. _Ese equipo_.

Mesut’s side loses, but it doesn’t matter. He’s paired with Ángel, Ángel who speaks slowly and understands what it’s like to be new.

 

After practice, Mourinho pulls Mesut aside and asks how he’s doing, how he’s fitting in. Mesut appreciates it, appreciates that Mourinho cares because he’s knows what it’s like to have a coach that doesn’t, but the language barrier keeps things awkward. He doesn’t know what to call Mourinho— _El Míster? Entrenador? Jefe?_ Mesut settles for not calling him anything and hopes that doesn’t come across as rude.

“¿ _Cómo va todo_?” Mourinho asks. “¿ _Está haciendo bien_?” And it must show on Mesut’s face that he doesn’t quite understand because Mourinho smiles and settles for a simple, “¿ _Cómo estás_?” How are you?

Mesut understands, stutters out a “Fine, thank you,” and “I like this team.” Simple sentences, nothing fancy, but it gets the point across. “Spanish is hard. I am working a lot. Madrid is nice.” And Spanish _is_ hard. He _is_ working a lot. Madrid could be nice, but Mesut doesn’t know.

Mourinho sends him away with a smile and a request to send Ronaldo his way. Mesut understands. _Comprendo. Entiendo._ He understands.

 

Mesut walks into the locker room, past Dudek’s locker— _veinticinco_ — and past Sami’s— _veinticuatro_ —and past his own— _veintitrés_. 

Sami says, “Where were you? I’ve already showered.”

“Sorry,” Mesut says. “Coach needed me. I’ll be quick.”

And they’ve lapsed into German without even realizing it—of _course_ without realizing it, it’s what they _know_ —and so everyone around them starts hollering, “No German! No German!” Sami laughs, waving his hands wildly, “¡ _Lo siento, lo siento_!” It’s easy for him.

Mesut keeps walking. _Diez, nueve,_ empty _ocho. Siete_. Ronaldo’s not there.

“¿ _Ronaldo_?” he asks Benzema. Benzema’s Spanish sounds too French, almost indiscernible, but he asks anyways because Benzema’s right there.

“Steam room,” Benzema says. “His leg.” Short sentences. What Mesut needs.

Mesut thanks him and heads down to the steam room. He thinks about the Valdebebas. It’s nothing like the training grounds he had back home. Or maybe, maybe it is, only it’s bigger, much bigger. He could get lost here, he thinks.

He stands outside the steam room door, hands on his hips, and he thinks about how one of the world’s best players is right inside, just a door away.

Mesut heads in and Ronaldo’s there, just like Benzema said he would be. He’s leaning back, eyes closed, one hand absently massaging a kink in his calf. Mesut almost doesn’t want to interrupt him. He looks as tired as Mesut feels.

“Um,” he says, and Ronaldo looks up. “ _Lo siento, Ronaldo, pero Mourinho quiere—quiere ver, ah_.” And he can’t get the words out of his mouth. He knows them, he knows he knows them, but they just stick to the roof of his mouth and the back of his teeth. 

Ronaldo laughs, but Mesut figures he knows how it is. 

“Okay, okay,” he says. “Thank you.” And he gets up, starts to gather his things, and so Mesut turns to leave because Sami is waiting for him and he still has to shower and he’s probably going to be late for his Spanish lesson.

And then—

“Cristiano,” Ronaldo says, one hand on his chest. “It’s—my name. It’s Cristiano.” And he’s got this smile, one with a lot of teeth but still nothing like Sergio’s, and it makes Mesut smile back, unrestrained.

“Cristiano.”

 

They break up into attack and defense to run some drills. He and Sami both head to the back of the line, both equally clueless and tired from the sprints.

“No, no,” Mourinho says, and he points at Mesut and then towards the front of the line. “Özil, second. Watch, then go.”

And Mesut—there’s not much he can do, so he listens to Mourinho and goes to stand behind Higuaín. It’s simple, pass to winger and then score on the cross, but Higuaín misses even though Iker’s using light resistance bands. And maybe that’s testament to them having the best keeper in the world, because then Mesut passes, shoots, misses as well.

Ronaldo—Cristiano—is next, and he shoots, scores, perfect. Mesut figures he shouldn’t be surprised, although he a little bit is, and he guesses his own frustration shows on his face because when Cristiano lines up again behind him, he jokes, “You look happy for me.” He reaches forward, one hand on either side of Mesut’s face, and bends Mesut’s mouth into a smile. “There,” he says, and Mesut understands all of it.

On his next try, Mesut shoots, scores, perfect—top left corner—and Cristiano is hollering, cheering for him like a lunatic. The rest of the guys laugh at his antics and Mesut heads to the back, head bowed and cheeks flushed.

It’s nice.

 

Mesut calls home often—his parents worry—but it takes a while before he reaches out, calls some of his old friends. He calls Thomas first, although he’s not really sure why. Maybe it’s because he’s still coming down from the World Cup high, still so used to being a partnership with him, but maybe not. Either way, he calls Thomas first.

“Mesut Özil,” Thomas says when he answers the phone. “And here I thought you were dead.”

“No,” Mesut says. “Just tired.” And that’s the truth. Maybe not the whole truth, but the truth nonetheless.

“Yeah, maybe,” Thomas says, “but Sami still calls all the time.”

“Bastard,” Mesut jokes.

“Yeah, pretty much. So how’s Madrid?”

“It’s good,” Mesut says. “The team is—the team is intense, but good. How’s Germany?” Thomas laughs at that, although Mesut doesn’t get why. It’s a legitimate question.

“Germany?” Thomas asks. “Germany’s exactly the same except everyone loves me more now. So come on, what’s Madrid like? What’s _Ronaldo_ like? And what about Casillas? I still hate that guy.”

“Madrid is great. I don’t really get to go out much and my Spanish is nonexistent, but it seems okay and Iker’s actually really nice, or he is when he’s in your goal, anyways.”

“And Ronaldo?”

“He’s good. Really good,” Mesut says, and it’s exactly what anyone else would say, only Mesut feels embarrassed by it and he doesn’t know why.

 

Mesut falls into pattern pretty easily. On the days that he has practice, that’s all he does, and on the days that he doesn’t, he sleeps in and then he and Sami play FIFA 10 in their boxers, talking about how awesome the next version is going to be and how neither of them can even believe that Mesut just filmed a commercial for it with Rooney and Iniesta when it seems like just yesterday that both of them were unknown. And then every night they eat dinner together, and then they go to bed, only to wake up to do it all over again.

Mesut’s just glad he actually likes Sami.

 

The last practice before the first game of the season is intense, frustrating. They’re working on formations and plays and back passes, and it all a little bit goes over Mesut’s head. He can _do_ it, of course he can, but most of the time he doesn’t understand right away what Mourinho wants or what Iker wants or what Higuaín wants, and that frustrates everybody. There’s a lot of pressure riding on the team, on the _galácticos_ , and Mesut knows that. Doesn’t change the fact that he doesn’t know what the hell a _golazo_ is.

 

Mesut’s sprawled out on the floor in their living room, arms and legs wide as he stares at the stucco ceiling. Gol Televisión is on, some English Premier League round-up that he doesn’t really care about and can’t really understand, and Mesut thinks of the game he just played.

“You know, we have a couch,” Sami says. He’s standing over Mesut and eating an apple; some juice lands on Mesut’s face the next time Sami takes a bite.

“First game,” Mesut says. “I was nice and useless. We might as well have been playing with ten.”

“Yeah?” Sami asks. “And what the fuck was I? Top goal-scorer? At least you played longer than I did.”

“I know,” Mesut says. “But that makes sense, though. I _am_ better than you.” 

Sami laughs and kicks Mesut in the ribs, not hard but hard enough that Mesut tries to avoid it.

“Hey!” Sami says. “Shut it.” There’s a pause where neither of them say anything and then, “Dinner tonight?”

“Yeah,” Mesut says. “What else would I do with my time?” He reaches a hand out and Sami takes it to help him up.

“Good, because I found a German restaurant around here,” he says. “Owned by some Spanish, of course, but they’re wearing _lederhosen_ , so that’s got to be a good sign.”

Mesut laughs, just a bark of laughter that ends too quickly and is very uncharacteristic of him, and goes to find his shoes.

 

He wakes up on his next free morning to the sound of Sami wandering the apartment, singing something in Spanish, something that he got from one of the guys on the team, or maybe from somebody in South Africa.

“ _Todo es nuevo y viejo a la vez. Soy nuevo en el barrio y viejo en mi cuerpo. Me siento cansado otra vez_ ,” Sami sings, and Mesut’s just in a bad mood, so he yells back, “No!” and hopes that Sami gets it.

He doesn’t and so Mesut sandwiches his head between two pillows and tries to go back to sleep.

Later, when he wakes up for real, he stumbles out of his room feeling like he barely slept. He goes to his Spanish lesson and Sami laughs at him because all of a sudden he’s mixing the tenses, forgetting proper conjugation and not making any sense.

When they get back home, it’s barely five o’clock and Mesut locks himself away in his room. He tells Sami that he’s not hungry, he climbs into bed, and he turns out the light.

He falls asleep almost right away.

 

Mesut’s bad mood carries over into the next day. It’s his turn to drive to practice, and he does, but he doesn’t talk the entire car ride there, doesn’t say anything when Sami messes with his stereo. When he stretches, he partners with Ángel, someone he’s more or less familiar with, and Ángel tries to start a conversation as much as Mesut tries to avoid one.

“So what do you think about Madrid?” Ángel asks as he laces his fingers together and grabs a hold of Mesut’s heel.

“It’s nice,” Mesut says, and he leans into the stretch.

“I think so, too,” Ángel smiles. “Friendly people.” And any other time, Mesut would have joked, “Yeah, but you’re also a _futbolista_.” He doesn’t this time, and Ángel carries on, “ _El Míster_ is nice, too. Smart as hell. At first, when I heard Mourinho was coaching—I don’t know what I thought. It’s crazy, this _galáctico_ thing.”

“I like him, too. He’s been very good to Sami and I. It was hard because we don’t know Spanish, but—but—” Mesut pauses, looking for the words. “ _Él quieres que estamos en casa_.” It’s a butchering of _he wants us to feel at home_ , and Mesut knows it, but Ángel smiles and nods, says he agrees.

“Switch it up!” Iker yells out, a phrase Mesut knows only from its frequent use. “Change partners! Warm up feints and short passes.”

Everyone heads over to get a ball and Cristiano nudges him. 

“Partners?” he asks, and Mesut shrugs. They loosen up with quick taps and work up to longer passes before moving on to feints. It’s only then that Cristiano says, “I heard you and di María talking trash about _El Míster_ .”

“I wasn’t,” Mesut says. “I was—I just saying that—”

“I know,” Cristiano laughs. “I’m joking.”

“I was just saying that he wants us to feel at home,” Mesut explains anyways.

“I _know_ ,” Cristiano says. “But it’s _él quiere_. He wants. _Quiere_.”

Mesut throws his head back and groans. He’s such an idiot.

“I hate your language,” he says.

“Hey, now,” Cristiano says. “It’s not my language either. I just have more practice than you.”

And that—that makes Mesut blink. He’s sure he had known that, but somehow, amongst the football and the tutoring sessions and the loneliness, Mesut had just forgotten.

“Oh,” he says. “Right.”

Cristiano smiles. “You’ll get there,” he says, but Mesut doesn’t think he ever will.

 

He calls Lukas and Lukas laughs at him.

“If you wanted to join a winning team and not have to learn a new language, Cologne was waiting with open arms,” he says.

“Didn’t you just lose your first two games?” Mesut asks.

“Yes, and I really don’t want to talk about it!” Lukas jokes.

They talk about nothing for a while, just practice stories and early trade rumors, gossip about people they know and about people they don’t. Mesut tells Lukas how Sami was pantsed earlier that day and Lukas tells him how word on the street is that he’s headed _back_ to Bayern Munich, “although that’s just wishful thinking but, I mean, can you blame them? I’m actually coming to Real Madrid; when can I move in?” 

And just before they hang up, Lukas says, “Once you work it all out? The goals will come and they won’t stop. You’ll get it sooner or later.”

Mesut thinks, sooner or later. Thinks, _más temprano que tarde_. Thinks, prays, hopes it’s sooner.

 

Cristiano comes up to him one day as he’s passing with Sergio one training after the Real Sociedad match and asks, “What are you doing for dinner?”

“I don’t know?” Mesut says, and he says it like a question because he thinks maybe he misunderstood.

“I cook,” Cristiano says, and he’s raising an eyebrow and tilting his head like that should mean anything.

“Okay,” Mesut says, because in situations like this he thinks it’s best to just pretend he knows what’s going on. He cooks? Maybe that’s like _nutmeg_ , just another football term that he doesn’t know.

“Okay, great!” Cristiano says. “¡ _Fantástico_! Eight o’clock?” And then he’s shooting Mesut two thumbs up and jogging away, back to where he was passing with Pepe.

“I don’t know about his cooking,” Sergio tells him. “But good luck.”

Mesut just stares at him and says, “What… _what_?”

Sergio laughs.

 

He tells Sami on the way home and Sami laughs at him too.

“Oh my god,” he says. “He’s like, taking you under his wing and stuff. You’ll be in Prada ads before you know it.”

“Armani,” Mesut says. “And I don’t even know what’s going on. I didn’t even understand what he was saying; Sergio had to tell me after I’d already agreed.” Sami finds that hilarious and he laughs so much Mesut thinks he’s going to crash the car.

“Watch the road!” Mesut says. “And shut up. It’s going to be so awkward.”

“You’ll be fine,” Sami says. “First dates are always awkward.” Mesut punches Sami in the arm, but he just keeps laughing and laughing. “I can’t wait to tell Thomas!”

Mesut groans, looks out the window. His life.

 

Cristiano answers the door and he’s dressed casual, or as casual as Cristiano ever gets. His jeans probably cost more than Mesut’s iPod and his earrings more than Mesut’s car, but his hair is messy and his shirt is an old Portugal t-shirt, and that relaxes Mesut.

“Come in, come in,” Cristiano says, and so Mesut does, just stands in the foyer and says, “Um. Hello.”

Cristiano laughs, leads him into the living room saying, “Just us. My son is at my mother’s tonight.” And Mesut knew that Cristiano had a son, would have to be blind and deaf not to, but he somehow just forgot. In practice and on the pitch, Cristiano never struck Mesut as a father, not the way Miro did, not the way Alonso did. “Water? Soda?”

Mesut wants to say, “Why are you doing this? Why are you being so nice to me?” but he doesn’t. Instead, he says, “Water, please.”

He wanders the living room while Cristiano’s in the kitchen, trying to look around without looking like he’s actively doing so. There are a lot of pictures—pictures of his family and of a small baby, pictures of Portugal and Real Madrid and Kaká.

“You will see him,” Cristiano says, sneaking up behind Mesut. He’s pointing at a picture of him and Kaká in last year’s away kit, making grabby hands at each other as they celebrate a goal. “On the pitch, I mean. And you won’t be able to believe that someone could be so good.”

He talks slow like he’s talking to a foreigner, not slow like he’s talking to an idiot. There’s a difference, Mesut thinks. He’s become so used to the latter.

“Is he really?” Mesut asks. He doesn’t have the words to finish his sentence, but Cristiano understands him anyways.

“No,” he says. “Better.”

“You are good friends, then?”

“Yes,” Cristiano says. He’s smiling but he doesn’t look very happy, and Mesut doesn’t understand. He thinks about playing for Germany without Bastian or Thomas, or for Werder Bremen without Marko, and then Mesut maybe gets it. “Very good friends.”

They sit there for a few more minutes and then Cristiano’s shaking his head as if to clear something out from in front of his eyes.

“You any good at billiards?” he asks, and then he makes and hand gesture to convey using a pool cue.

“Not really,” Mesut says. “I’m okay.” He’s lying; he knows he’s good.

“A bet, then!” Cristiano says, and Mesut smiles. He’s an easy read, Cristiano. 

“I don’t know,” Mesut says, and Cristiano leads him into a game room—there’s a pool table in the center, and a huge tv with video game consoles off to one side. Most of the walls are lined with framed game shirts, some posters. It’s nice, Mesut thinks. He’d want one like this when he a buys a house.

“Hundred euro,” Cristiano says. “Almost nothing.”

“Okay,” Mesut says, and Cristiano’s only sunk two balls by the time he’s calling, “Eight ball, that—uh—”

“ _Bolsillo_ ,” Cristiano says, but he doesn’t sound too happy about it. “Pocket.”

“Yeah,” Mesut says. “That pocket.”

He sinks it and smiles the entire time Cristiano is digging out his wallet.

 

Practice that week ranges from bad to good and then back again.

At first Mesut just thought that it was how Mourinho worked, pushing people and pushing people and pushing people, but now he’s not so sure. He’s not like this with anyone else but Mesut.

“No, no, no! Mesut, no!” he’s yelling. “Again, faster! And _not_ like that!”

And so Mesut does it again—whatever drill it is, it’s always the same reaction. 

“Mesut! Why use your right foot there? Use your left. _Left_! Again!” and “Why would you pass? You had open goal!” and “Why _didn’t_ you pass? Higuaín was _right there_!”

It’s just something Mesut doesn’t like to deal with. The other guys notice it, bump shoulders with him and say, “Good pass,” or clap him on the back and say, “Nice footwork, there,” but Mesut knows they just say it because they feel bad. He’s doesn’t like that.

But it’s not all bad. He likes his teammates, he really does, and he can’t wait until he can actually talk to them. Either way, though, they’re nice and they welcome Mesut like a brother.

One day, about midweek, Marcelo says something snarky to Álvaro—Mesut doesn’t know what, doesn’t know the words but can guess just by the voice he uses—and Álvaro rolls his eyes. He waits, must have the patience of a saint, because Mesut’s forgotten all about it by the time that Marcelo bends over to tie his shoe and Álvaro just pushes him.

He just—pushes him. Just pushes him lightly and Marcelo’s toppling over, on the ground saying, “Yeah, yeah,” only then when he tries to get back up, Álvaro pushes him again and again, laughing and saying something back at him, something too fast for Mesut to follow, but he gets that it’s payback. So Marcelo darts his arms out, wraps them around Álvaro’s calves, and he yells, “Help!” and then—and then—

“Mesut! _Help_! Tackle him! Something!” And whatever he says after that is irrelevant because he’s calling for Mesut, calling for Mesut _by name_ when they’re on a field full of his closest friends, and so Mesut doesn’t hesitate to fling himself on Álvaro’s back, and then Pepe’s joining in, and Carvalho, and they’re all just wrestling and joking around until Iker comes by, breaks up, and says that they’ve got to get back to training.

They do, and then it’s back to—

“ _Faster_ , Mesut!” and, “You go _first_ , Mesut,” and “Why didn’t you _shoot_ , Mesut?”

In the car, Sami tries to tell him not to let Mourinho get to him because he’s good, he’s a good footballer with killer instincts, but Mesut just can’t do that. 

He rests his head against the window and doesn’t talk the entire ride. He doesn’t get what he did wrong.

 

Mesut goes outside, sits on a bench along some random street and calls Marko. He supposes he could have done it inside, but Sami’s there and he doesn’t want Sami to overhear. It’s—this call is a big deal to Mesut, one he’s been putting off for a while because he doesn’t know what to say and because maybe—because maybe Marko just doesn’t want to hear it.

It rings a few times before he picks up, but when he does, he says, “Hey, Mesut,” just like he always did.

Mesut says, “Marko, hey, I—hey,” and Marko laughs a little.

“How’s Madrid?” Marko asks. Mesut can’t tell if it’s small talk or something much, much heavier than that.

“It’s—it’s great, really great,” he says, and Marko laughs again, just a little bit, quietly.

“And how is it really?” he asks. And Mesut—he just crumples because Marko _knows_ , just like Marko’s always _known_ , and Mesut should have known, too.

“It’s—hard,” Mesut says. “I hate the language, and the coach—Mourinho—keeps riding me and I don’t know _why_ , and I live with Sami, who I like, I really _like_ , but he’s not _you_ , and he doesn’t _get_ it, and it’s just really—” Mesut cuts himself off.

“You made the right decision, though,” Marko says. “To leave, I mean.” And that—

“Really?” Mesut says. “You’re not still mad?”

“No.”

“Oh. Okay,” Mesut says. “Good. I miss you.”

“I miss you, too,” Marko says. “But you’re where you’re supposed to be.”

 

It’s hot out for how late in the year it is, but it doesn’t really bother Mesut. He’s used to the heat, he’s used to the cold; he’s used to it all. It’s all the same to him.

During a break between running sets, he jogs over to where the water bottles were left and is about to pop the top on his when Canales stops him. 

“Mesut, wait,” he says. He had told everyone to call him Sergio, but Sergio Ramos said he pulled rank and so everyone calls him Canales. “I think that one’s Sami’s. Yours is the one next to it.”

“Oh,” Mesut says. “Thanks.” And it happens all the time, mixing up water bottles. It doesn’t really matter, but at any rate, he switches out the bottles. He thinks he must have chugged about half of it before his body realizes that he’s not drinking water or Lucozade, but saltwater, and he starts coughing like crazy and spits out what’s still in his mouth.

“Oh my God, are you okay?” Canales asks. His eyes are big and wide and Mesut can’t bring himself to hate him.

“No, it’s—it’s water—with salt,” Mesut says between coughs. He doesn’t know the Spanish word for saltwater, all he knows is that his eyes are stinging and watering.

“ _Joder_ , I swear I didn’t know!” Canales is saying, thumping Mesut on the back like that actually helps. “Sami just told me to—and he’s your friend, so I thought—”

Mesut looks over to where Sami is. He’s with Raúl and Marcelo and Esteban, and they’re all laughing. Pranks are pretty common during practice, and Mesut figured it was only a matter of time until someone got him. Still, what a traitor. Mesut flicks him off.

He turns to Mourinho who’s just a few feet away and says, “I’m going—I’ll be—”

Mourinho just waves a hand, says, “Take care of it,” and then Mesut’s off, coughing and jogging to the water fountain a ways away. He gets there and he coughs some more—almost coughs up a lung, to be honest—and then rinses out his bottle before filling it up. He jogs back to the other side of the pitch where everyone is and they’re all standing practically on top of each other; something exciting must have happened.

“Hey, Mesut!” Sergio says. “Look who’s come to visit!”

And as Mesut looks closer, he can see who it is—Kaká. He’s still in street clothes, obviously not there to practice, but what Mesut notices more is how Cristiano’s got his arm slung around Kaká’s waist, his face buried in Kaká’s shoulder as he laughs about something.

“Hello, Mesut!” Kaká says when he notices him. They’ve only met a handful of times and Kaká has never been anything but nice. “I was just telling everyone that I’m only stopping by for a few minutes on the way to the physio’s. Wanted to see how everyone was doing.”

“I’d be doing a lot better if I was on vacation like _you_ are,” Higuaín says, and they all laugh.

Mourinho interjects then, says, “Alright, alright, everyone back to practice,” and they all scatter, get back into lines to run the ladder or sprint between cones. When he finishes his first sprint, Mesut looks back to where Kaká was. He’s still there, and Cristiano is still with him.

They’re standing close, real close, and Kaká is saying something and then nudging Cristiano. Cristiano throws his head back and laughs, and then hides his face in his hands as Kaká throws an arm around him, raises a hand to mess up his hair. Cristiano pushes him away, laughs some more.

“Your turn,” Benzema says to him, and Mesut snaps out of it. He takes off on his next sprint and thinks, _oh_ , because he didn’t know, couldn’t have know, feels like an idiot for not guessing sooner.

_Very good friends_ , Cristiano had said.

Mesut gets it now. 

 

For the Champions League game against Auxerre, Mesut learns that’s he’s not in the starting eleven and he’s—well, he’s mad, yeah, upset and disappointed, but mostly he’s just confused.

“I don’t get it,” he says to Sami, and he makes sure it’s in German and even though no one else will understand, he speaks fast and low and tilts his head down. “I mean, I didn’t do anything wrong, did I? I know I haven’t scored yet, but why—why keep me around if you’re not going to fucking play me? If they don’t trust me to help us win?”

“You might still play. You probably will,” Sami says, but then again, he’s starting, so what would he know?

“That’s not the point,” Mesut says. “Never mind, forget it. It was stupid, anyways.”

Mesut shakes his head and starts to walk away to get dressed, to get ready to warm the bench, when Iker grabs him by the elbow.

“What’s up?” he says. “Is everything okay?”

And Mesut knows that Sami’s watching, can feel the weight of Sami’s gaze when he forces a smile and says, “Yes, everything’s fine.”

“Okay then,” Iker says. “But no German in the locker room, yeah? We’re a team.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Mesut says. He knows the rules.

 

Fifty-eight minutes after the first whistle, Mesut is subbed on for Benzema. He passes to Ángel in the eighty-first for an assist, but Mesut doesn’t score. Not a surprise; Mourinho probably already figured he wouldn’t do much, anyways.

 

“What’s wrong?” Cristiano asks as they all pile into the bus. “¿ _Qué pasó_? We won.”

“I know,” Mesut says, and he does. He knows that they won and he knows that he should just be glad that he played and he knows that he’s being childish. Either way, he still goes in his bag and pulls out his headphones as he sits down, the big ones that block out any noise and that signal that he doesn’t want to talk.

Unfortunately, Cristiano sits next to him and ignores the signal, removing the earpiece from one ear and saying, “Seriously, tell me. It’s better to talk about it.”

“You want to know?” Mesut asks. He doesn’t want to deal with pity talks.

“Yes.”

“I can’t score,” Mesut says, and he’s glad it’s a football matter because those are the words he knows, the words he’s around all the time.

“You didn’t. Doesn’t mean you can’t,” he says and Mesut tells him that they’re the one in the same. Cristiano lets out a string of really fast Spanish when he hears that, something that he doesn’t normally do because he’s usually so careful around Mesut, but then he catches himself. He says, “I didn’t score; di María did. Doesn’t mean we don’t have that _madridismo_.”

“You score a lot,” Mesut says as the bus pulls away from the curb. “In other matches. I’m—I don’t know—not working.”

“You’re not _broken_ ,” Cristiano says. “ _Por favor_.”

Mesut just shrugs, looks out the window. He’s not really in the mood for this conversation, but Cristiano wanted to have it, so.

“You do things,” Cristiano says, “on the pitch, that I can’t do. You’re _furtivo_ ,” he says.

“What?”

“Um. Quiet?” he says. “No, no, more like you’re like a—a _fantasma_ , the way you go in and out of the box like that,” Cristiano says. And that—that’s a word Mesut doesn’t know.

“Like a _what_?” he asks, and if Cristiano’s aim was to cheer him up, it wasn’t working. Mesut can’t even understand him. 

“A _fantasma_ ,” Cristiano repeats. “Wait, wait, one second.” And then he’s going into his bag and pulling out a pocket German dictionary and something swells in Mesut’s chest, some kind of emotion that he can’t put a name to. “A—a _gespenst_ ,” he says with the worst German accent Mesut has ever heard, and he can’t help but laugh. “What?” Cristiano says. “What?”

“Nothing,” Mesut tells him, but it’s not nothing, it’s the exact opposite of nothing. “But thank you.”

Cristiano smiles and Mesut smiles back, and then they both settle in and shut their eyes, tuning out their teammates and the traffic and the engine of the bus, working steady beneath their bodies.

 

The next day there’s no practice and it’s just Mesut and Sami, just the two of them. They Skype Holger, who’s hanging with Thomas and Toni Kroos, and so they shoot the shit for over an hour and it’s really nice, exactly what he needed, Mesut thinks. A reminder of home.

Later, they make butter-free popcorn and put on some trashy _telenovela_ and make up ridiculous plotlines to go with it, only to end up becoming legitimately interested in what’s going on.

“Wait, is she—I thought they said she died?” Sami says.

“No, no, that was her sister,” Mesut says. “Looks just like her, though.”

“Whatever, they’re both hot. As long as one of them lives,” Sami says, and something about that is so funny to the both of them that they can’t stop laughing and they miss a good chunk of the program. When they do calm down, Javier is racing to stop a wedding and they’re both just sitting there with these big stupid grins on their faces. Mesut looks over at Sami.

“I feel like I never see you even though I see you all the time,” Mesut says. He doesn’t know why he says it. It’s stupid and he knows they both have to focus if they want to know what’s going on in the show.

“That’s because you’re always with Cristiano,” Sami says. He nudges Mesut’s knee with his own.

“Shut up. Am I really?” Mesut asks.

“No. Yes. Kind of. It’s okay, though,” Sami says.

“Okay.”

 

Sami’s sitting on the couch, ice strapped to his ankle.

“I think this injury might do me in,” he says. “Mesut, I want you to have my stereo.”

“You’re not dying, get over it,” Mesut says, picking up their dirty dishes and heading towards the kitchen. “You rolled your ankle at practice; you’ll be fine. And besides, the stereo I already own is better than the one you’re giving to me as a deathbed gift.”

“Yeah, what is up with that?” Sami asks. “Your bedroom stereo is better than the one in my _car_.”

“I just like music,” Mesut shrugs, and that’s really all there is to it.

Someone knocks on the door as Mesut’s making his second trip to the kitchen and Sami says, “You can get that.”

“What? No,” Mesut says. “You get it. I’m cleaning.”

“But I’m crippled,” Sami says, and Mesut just laughs, _yeah, no_. “Fine, fine,” Sami grumbles, and he hobbles his way over to the door.

Mesut’s just finished loading the dishwasher when he hears Sami yell, “Mesut, you’ll never guess— it’s _Cristiano_ ,” followed by a Spanish, “Hey, hey, no German!”

Mesut wipes his hands on a dishtowel and heads out to the foyer.

“Hey, Cristiano,” he says. Cristiano’s dressed in a dark sweatshirt and athletic sneakers and he’s standing in Mesut’s doorway, a football trapped between his arm and his hip.

“Are you busy?” he asks Mesut, biting his lip and rocking forward onto his toes.

“Not really,” Mesut says.

“Okay, awesome, then throw on some sneakers, I’ve got something to show you.”

Cristiano leads him outside and down the street. It’s dark and there’s no moon, and if it weren’t for the streetlights, Mesut wouldn’t be able to see anything.

“Where are we going?” Mesut asks.

“A public football pitch, just down the road,” Cristiano says, and then teases, “You probably don’t know it’s there because you never leave your apartment.” He drops the ball from his hands, steadying it with his foot until he’s just pushing it ahead of himself with his toes. “And I know I didn’t say anything about it in practice, but I thought about what you said on the bus, and if you’ve forgotten how to score, I’ll show you. So come on.”

And at first—at first Mesut finds it laughable, what Cristiano says, but then they get to the pitch and something about it makes him think of home, of being young again. It’s dark but Mesut can see some metal bleachers off to one side, can tell that there are spots where the grass has been worn down to just dirt, and he thinks about rushing out of the house after dinner when he was just a boy, playing football with whoever was allowed out until he had to go to bed.

“Alright, you ready then?” Cristiano says, and then he kicks the football at Mesut. It bounces off his shins and back to Cristiano, who takes it and runs with it all the way down the pitch. Mesut peels off after him, but Cristiano’s gotten too large a head start, and the ball gets to the goal and then goes between the posts before Mesut can even catch up. Cristiano comes jogging back afterwards, hands in the air, waving to an invisible crowd.

“Is that jogging your memory, Özil?” Cristiano asks. “Remember how to score yet?”

“Shut up,” Mesut starts to say, but then Cristiano cuts him off.

“That’s 1-0, Mesut. Opening seconds of the match and you’re already down,” he says.

“I didn’t know we were playing!” Mesut objects.

“Ah,” Cristiano says, shaking his head and _tsk_ -ing like Mourinho does. He motions as if he were taking out a little notebook, writes in the air with an invisible pen as he says, “Not observant; sore loser.”

Mesut laughs and then darts his foot out, stealing the ball back from Cristiano before racing away, back towards the other goal, laughing.

They play first to five, and then first to ten, and then first to twenty. Mesut’s sweaty, but it’s a good sweaty, a different kind of sweaty from matches and practice because this is just a game, just for fun. He’s smiling so hard that his cheeks hurt.

“Watch closely now,” Cristiano says. “I’m going to fake left and then go right.” They’re standing a foot apart and he does his signature move, the footwork, only he fakes left, fakes right, and when Mesut goes right, Cristiano goes left.

“Hey!” Mesut says. “Cheating!”

“Not cheating if the ref doesn’t see it,” Cristiano says, and he makes a face like, _What are you going to do about it_? “Not, of course, that I would ever cheat in a real match.”

Mesut makes a noise, one in the back of his throat that says he’s annoyed, and says, “Give me the ball. Look, this is you.” He does Cristiano’s move—fakes left, fakes right, fakes left, fakes right, again and again and again, so exaggeratedly—and then just collapses to the floor, moaning and grabbing at his ankle.

“Oh, _joder_ ,” Cristiano says, dropping to his knees at Mesut’s side and grabbing Mesut’s arm. “What happened? Joder, _joder_ , are you okay?”

“No,” Mesut groans. “Give him a red card.”

And then Cristiano’s throwing Mesut’s arm away from himself, laughing and cursing up a storm in Spanish, saying, “I really believed you! I thought you were hurt!”

“And that’s the difference between you and me,” Mesut says, and he’s laughing too, high and light and free.

They stay out for a while longer, longer than they should, each taking turns at making ridiculous shots and playing keeper and seeing who can score from farthest out. They only leave when it starts to rain, and then they jog back to Mesut’s.

“You want a, uh—a—” Mesut stutters out when they get there. How does he not know that word?

“A towel?” Cristiano guesses.

“Yes. Or something?” Mesut asks.

“No, no, I need to get home,” Cristiano says. “We’ve got early practice, anyways. See you tomorrow, Mesut.”

“Yeah, see you,” Mesut says, and then Cristiano’s gone, hunched over and running through the rain to his car. Mesut watches.

 

Mesut has a dream.

He has a dream and in it, all he’s doing is falling, falling and falling and falling. There’s nothing around, nothing for him to see except for blackness, and then: a dot. A green dot. And as Mesut falls closer and closer to it, he sees that it’s a pitch, it’s the Bernabéu, and everyone’s there playing football without him—Real Madrid and Werder Bremen and Die Mannschaft.

Only—only they’re not playing without him, because he’s there. Mesut can see himself on the pitch, wearing the Real Madrid white and the Werder Bremen green and the Die Mannschaft black, and then suddenly he’s moving too fast, getting too close to the pitch and he’s still falling, still falling and falling, faster and faster, and just before he’s about to hit, Mesut wakes up, teetering on the edge of his mattress.

He throws up in the bathroom and Sami hears him, brings him a glass of water.

 

The next La Liga game is against Deportivo, and it’s pouring. Mesut is soaked to the bone way before kickoff, and he’s cold, too. His hair sticks to his forehead as they line up, and after Iker shakes hands with the Deportivo captain, they head onto the pitch.

He’s starting and it makes him unnecessarily nervous. He’s started hundreds of games before, he’s started in games more important than this before, and yet—he’s nervous. He wants to do well, wants to hear the crowd cheer for his goal and not just for his good effort.

“Hey, Mesut,” Cristiano calls over to him as they wait for the referees. “Watch closely, alright? I’m going to fake left and then go right.”

Mesut laughs, finds it funnier than he should, and then the whistle is blown and he’s off, all of his worries forgotten, left behind him on the pitch at midfield.

 

Four minutes in and Mesut lines up to take a corner. He pulls his leg back, lofts the ball into the box and then—Cristiano’s running towards the cameras in the opposite corner, his arms wide as he slides on his knees—goal.

Mesut gets over to him a minute later, hugs him and says, “Nice header.”

Cristiano laughs, says, “Nice corner,” and then turns around, his face to the stands, and makes grabby hands at the box seats.

Mesut laughs and jogs to line up. Cristiano’s an idiot.

 

Twenty-three minutes in and Higuaín slots Mesut a pass—a perfect pass—only by the time Mesut has it under his control, he’s swarmed by about four Deportivo players. He turns, weaves his way through them, and shoots a clumsy shot that hits the post, bottom left corner and—

And suddenly, it’s 2-0.

Mesut goes running, hugs Marcelo cause he’s right there. He kisses his finger, points to the sky, thanks God. Sami’s got an arm around his waist when Cristiano makes it to him, his hand on the back of Mesut’s head and his forearm following the line of Mesut’s spine.

And Mesut doesn’t really know when Cristiano’s opinion became so valued to him, but it did, it is, and Cristiano’s an amazing player, so it only makes sense.

“ _¡Goooool!_ ” Cristiano says in his ear, and Mesut’s smile stays put long after they start up again, long after Ángel and Higuaín score, long after Castro’s own goal, and long after Cristiano leaves them all in the dust again.

6-1.

It feels good.

 

Mesut likes when they do bike workouts. They all head to the cardio room and the bikes are set up close enough that they can all still talk when they’re not working hard, and he gets to just listen to all the Spanish being flung around, gets to hear how much he understands. Mesut likes getting to hear all the stories, usually embarrassing ones, because he likes getting to know his teammates like that, like they’re people and not just _futbolistas_.

Their first time on the bikes after the Deportivo match, they make fun of Canales and why women seem to love him.

“It’s that hair, you see. Makes him look like a child,” Pedro says. “Women love that shit!”

“No, no,” Esteban says. “They like how he matches his outfit to his girlfriend’s—”

“The _pink_!” Pepe roars, and then Cristiano’s saying, “There’s nothing wrong with pink!”

“Yeah,” Canales says. “Besides, my mom bought me that shirt.” And that sets them off again, laughing at Canales who’s blushing beet red.

“You’re not any better, _CR7_ ,” Marcelo’s saying. “What was with that cutesy shit at the Deportivo match, huh?” And then he’s scrunching up his face and making grabby hands, the same ones Cristiano had made after his goals.

“Shut up,” Cristiano says, and he swats a hand out to smack Marcelo on the arm.

“Does someone miss Kaká?” Benzema laughs. “Do you need a tissue?” And that—that’s where Mesut had seen that gesture before, from a photo in Cristiano’s house. He dedicated his goals to Kaká.

“You’re one to talk,” Cristiano says. “You’re _French_.”

And then Lass is yelling, “What is _that_ supposed to mean?” and everything just kind of falls apart until they’re all yelling atop of one another and Mesut’s stopped listening because he’s thinking of Kaká and grabby hands and box seats at the Bernabéu.

 

Mesut gets a text message and at first he’s not sure what’s going on because no one really texts him besides Bastian, and even then it’s just Bundesliga scores and gossip, but it turns out to be from Cristiano.

“Want to play pool tonight?” the text says. “ _Revancha_.” And Mesut doesn’t know what _revancha_ means, but he looks it up and it means _rematch_ and so he goes over. Sami makes fun of him, says, “Be sure to use a condom!” and Mesut rolls his eyes, ignores him.

Mesut’s good at pool; he’s confident he’ll win again.

What he doesn’t expect is for Cristiano to answer the door holding a baby, _his_ baby.

“Um,” Mesut says.

“Come on in,” Cristiano says, and he waves Mesut in. “And now you finally get to meet little Cris! Say hi, Cris!” And then Cristiano takes his baby’s hand, moves it to make a waving motion, and he laughs and laughs like it’s the funniest thing in the world.

The baby is cute, Mesut can’t deny that. He’s all big cheeks and a tuft of dark hair, and Mesut doesn’t normally like babies, doesn’t particularly like this one, although he’s quiet and still and so Mesut thinks he’s alright.

“I was just about to put him to bed,” Cristiano says. “One minute, yeah? You remember where the pool table is. Drinks are in the kitchen,” and then he’s off, down the hall, somewhere else.

Mesut goes, grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and wanders towards the game room. There’s a baby toy on one of the chairs, some sort of rattle, and the noisemaker is shaped like a football. It makes Mesut smile.

“Alright!” Cristiano says when he comes back. “Are you ready to lose?” Mesut looks surprised, darts his eyes around the room.

“Why?” he asks. “Who am I playing?” and Cristiano laughs, points a pool cue at him and says, “ _You_ ,” not an answer to Mesut’s question, but something else entirely.

Mesut racks the balls and as he’s hunched over, he sees that Cristiano has a baby monitor clipped to his Gucci belt. It makes Mesut smile, and he wins before Cristiano’s even gotten started.

Later, they throw themselves onto his couch and watch Gol Televisión, listening to the announcers talk about Barça's draw (“The enemy,” Cristiano says) and their own 6-1 victory as they show clips of the match.

“That’s a goal,” Cristiano says as Mesut is on the screen. “That’s fancy, right there,” and he’s referring to how Mesut weaves his way around the opposition.

“Yes, but it’s only _one_ ,” Mesut says, and Cristiano laughs.

“You know, you’re exactly what I expected when I was told you were transferring here, only you’re more,” Cristiano says, and Mesut doesn’t understand. Thinks maybe it’s a cultural barrier rather than a language one, or maybe just a Cristiano-Mesut barrier.

“You’re nothing like what I thought,” Mesut says. “You’re quieter, not as—” Mesut waves his hand, “not as loud.”

And at that, Cristiano laughs and laughs and laughs, loud and long, almost as if to prove Mesut wrong.

“What are you talking about?” he asks. “Haven’t you seen my ads? Haven’t you heard me yelling up and down the pitch? I don’t do anything quietly.”

“You love quietly,” Mesut says, and then immediately feels like he’s overstepped his boundaries. They both know who he’s talking about, and they don’t say much after that.

 

Things get serious when people start to realize that _El Clásico_ is right around the corner. He and Sami don’t go out as much, Cristiano doesn’t call as often, they all start showing up to practice early.

“It’s the big one,” Iker tells him. “As big as it can be and not have there be any hardware at the end.”

So Mesut pushes himself that much harder and Mourinho yells that much louder—not just at him, not anymore, but at everyone and anyone.

“If we lose this, you are done,” he tells them as they run past him on the pitch during warm-ups. “If we lose this, you embarrass your _club_ , you embarrass _me_. And if you embarrass me, you are done. The Castilla will welcome you with open arms.”

And maybe it’s bad, Mesut doesn’t know, but he doesn’t care about embarrassing _El Míster_ ; he worries about embarrassing himself, his parents. He runs faster, though, the grass falling away beneath his feet and each step pounding in his ears.

 

Mesut blinks and then it’s here.

Despite what everyone had said, Mesut never thought that a regular season La Liga match could feel this heavy, could weigh on his mind and his shoulders this much. The locker room is quiet; Mourinho’s and Iker’s speeches are short. The tunnel is tense.

His match day mascot is a little girl, one with bright eyes and blonde hair and who can’t be older than six. As he puts his hand out for her to take, she says in German, “I wanted you to win the World Cup.”

He smiles, forgets everything for a minute, and says, “You speak German!”

The girl slaps a hand to her mouth, surprised, and says in Spanish, “My mom is from Germany. I was born in Kolbermoor.”

“Hey, my good friend was born there,” Mesut says, and they all start filing out of the tunnel. He wants to keep talking to the little girl because he likes her, because she’s sweet, but the time has passed and before he knows it, they’re out on the pitch.

They line up, stand about. The crowd sings, and Iker shakes hands with the referees. And then, just as the mascots are about to walk back to the sideline, the little girl tugs his hand and says, “I’ll cheer for you extra loud today.”

Mesut smiles, says, “I’ll be sure to listen,” and she smiles back at him, a mouth full of missing teeth.

 

Mesut runs a lot—back and forth, back and forth—and he takes a couple of corners. He doesn’t score; Cristiano doesn’t score; Ángel doesn’t score. The first half is full of missed opportunities—should haves, would haves, could haves—and one lone, conceded goal. Messi scores off a cross from Villa and for a minute, from midfield, Mesut thinks it’s beautiful football. But then he sees Iker punching the ground, hears Sergio yelling, “Come on, guys, we have to watch him!” and then Mesut doesn’t feel so good about it.

Barcelona had their turn last year, and the year before that; they had it four times in a row, but now it’s Real Madrid’s turn. Now it’s his turn, and Sami’s turn, and Iker’s and Marcelo’s and Xabi’s and Raúl’s, and they are down, 1-0.

 

The second half is just as hard, just as empty as the first, and the score doesn’t change. There’s a couple of yellows on both sides for harsh tackles, but nothing else really besides that. Mesut didn’t know Valdés was as good as he was; he only ever studied Iker for the World Cup.

And then, in the eighty-second minute, something interesting finally happens. Mesut’s just on the Real Madrid side of midfield and the ball’s being cleared from the around the Barcelona goal. Mesut jumps, goes to header the ball, sees Xavi jumping too, and then—and then.

 

Must have been a real nasty collision, Mesut thinks, although he’s not sure who’s at fault. He can’t—he can’t really remember it, to be honest; it’s all a little fuzzy. But he comes back to and Villa’s face is hovering right above his own—Villa, that’s someone he really respects; he did tremendously at the World Cup—one hand on his shoulder and his other waving over the medics.

Mesut tries to sit up, but Villa’s hand holds him down.

“No, no, don’t move,” he says. “The medics are coming.”

“But I’m—I’m fine,” Mesut says, and he rubs at his eyes with the heels of his palms. Part of his hand comes back red and Mesut looks at Villa. “I’m bleeding,” he says.

Villa laughs a little, says, “I know,” and, “You sound like Piqué,” and, “You’ll be fine.”

The medics come then, and they sit him up and tape gauze to his head. They ask him how he feels and he says fine, dizzy. They ask him if he wants water and he says yes. They ask him if he can still play and he shoots them a look, says of course and don’t you dare take me out when there’s only minutes left.

When he stands, Xabi’s there to help him in case he loses his footing. The crowd goes wild.

Xabi says, “You’re gonna want to watch that one on tv tonight,” and Mesut tells him, “I feel like you. Like De Jong just kicked me.” Xabi laughs.

“Cristiano got a yellow card, you know,” he says. “When you were down. He was arguing with the ref because Xavi didn’t get tossed. Let out so many bad words that your mother would—” Xabi motions at his face, “would get red in the cheeks.”

Mesut looks over to where Cristiano is, talking with Messi like they’re best friends. They’re the best players in the world; it only makes sense that they know each other. A part of Mesut wishes that Cristiano came over to see how he was rather than just arguing on his behalf. Mesut doesn’t care if Xavi stays or goes; he doesn’t even know what happened or whose fault it was.

 

Real Madrid doesn’t have a stand out star, doesn’t have one single face for the club. It’s hard, considering they’re all _galácticos_ , but it’s better that way, too. Divided attention, divided pressure, divided victory and divided failure.

But there’s nothing divided at all about the way Higuaín takes the ball and weaves through his defenders, nothing divided about the way he rockets it into the top right corner, just past Valdés’s fingertips in the eighty-seventh minute.

No, that’s all Higuaín.

 

In the ninety-second minute, halfway through stoppage time, Barcelona gets a corner. Mesut watches everyone in the box, pushing and shoving and struggling and he thinks this could be it. Xavi sets up, places the ball down on the corner and steps back. He readjusts the ball placement, steps back again. He sends the ball flying and Mesut watches from outside the box as Piqué’s head gets a piece of it and sends it up and over everyone else, but then Iker—San Iker—gets a fist on it and it clears.

The ball gets to Sergio, who sends it up to Mesut, who takes it and runs with it. It’s him and Cristiano, side-by-side, charging two-on-one to the goal and then—and then Mesut passes to Cristiano and Cristiano has the perfect opportunity, it’s only him and no one else. The keeper—Valdés—comes out, though, slides at Cristiano’s feet and manages to sweep the ball aside for a corner. Cristiano stands there, face to the sky and hands on the back of his head, immobile, in disbelief.

Mesut can’t believe it either.

But then he’s in the box, pushing up against someone stronger than him—Puyol, maybe. It’s the last play of the match before stoppage time ends and it’s theirs. Xabi is taking the ball to the corner and Mourinho has pulled Iker, sent him to the other end of the pitch. Everyone’s there. It’s do or die.

Xabi kicks the corner and it’s all slow-motion for Mesut. The ball skims the head of Piqué again, is cleared and then sent back in by Álvaro and everyone’s gunning for it, all of them, and Sergio gets a head on it. Valdés has it blocked, easy, except he can’t get control of it and the ball bounces of his hands, hits Mesut in the side of the face as he stumbles, and then there’s nothing in the stadium louder than the sound of ball finding net.

Mesut watches it land from his position face-down in the grass, and then Sergio’s hauling him up by the armpits, one hand smushing Mesut’s cheek to his lips, and then they’re tearing off towards the cameras, him and Sergio and all of them, and in that moment, he is a Madridista, he is Real Madrid.

 

Mourinho pulls him aside later, after the match and the celebration in the locker room. He smiles at Mesut for a minute, doesn’t say anything, just chews his gum.

And then, “I have been hard on you in practice, you think?”

“Ah,” Mesut says, and he looks down, scratches the back of his head. He doesn’t know how to say what he wants without being offensive, thinks that the correct response is probably, _No, you haven’t_ , and _I can take it_. Mourinho just laughs and claps him on the shoulder.

“You did very well today, Mesut,” he says. “Today, in the match. My pushing has paid off like I knew it would. You’re a great asset to this team.”

Mesut just says, “Thank you,” and then says it again, “ _Thank you_ ,” because he needed to hear that from Mourinho more than he had realized.

“I’m proud; you played well.” A hand on the back of his head, fingers in his hair. A stick of gum pressed lightly into his palm.

He heads back to his teammates and his smile is splitting his face.

 

They go out for dinner one evening to a Portuguese restaurant. Sami was supposed to come but bailed at the last minute when Sergio called and asked if he wanted to go see a bullfight.

“It’s Spanish culture, Mesut,” Sami says. “Don’t you want me to be cultured?”

So he and Cristiano go by themselves and that’s fine. Doesn’t really matter either way to Mesut.

The restaurant turns out to be nearby, not far from Mesut’s apartment, and it’s something he drives by every day on the way to practice and just never noticed. He finds it funny the way the waiters and waitresses all say hi to Cristiano, how they greet him when he walks in the door. They act like they know him.

“I used to come here a lot,” Cristiano explains. “Back when I first got here last year, especially. It’s so good.”

“I’ve never had Portuguese food before,” Mesut says, and Cristiano looks wounded.

“That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard,” he says, and then tells Mesut that he’s just going to order the best stuff for him. Mesut opens his mouth to remind Cristiano but then Cristiano beats him to it, saying, “No pork, no alcohol, no problem. I know, Mesut,” and Mesut has to laugh at that.

They eat _sopa de tomate e cebola_ and then _espetada_ , both of which Mesut likes, but his favorite is something called _milho frito_ , a side dish that kind of looks like French fries.

“These look so unhealthy,” Mesut says when the plate is put down in front of him.

“That’s because they are,” Cristiano says. “They’re fried.” Mesut eats them anyways and so does Cristiano.

“I don’t know why,” Mesut says, “but these remind me of _Badische Schupfnudeln_ back home. Like, uh—potato noodles.”

“Potato noodles?” Cristiano asks.

“Yeah,” Mesut says. “But they’re shaped kind of like this. Kind of like fingers.”

“That’s gross,” Cristiano says. “They just remind me of being in Madeira. I remember, when I first went to Sporting, I missed my mom’s _milho frito_ so bad.”

“Do you miss Madeira a lot?” Mesut asks.

“Yes,” Cristiano tells him, “I think so. But I’ve been missing it for so long that I don’t even know how to tell anymore.”

Mesut thinks of trees and the Gelsenkirchen skyline. He thinks of _Nordsternpark_ and _Hochstraße_ and _Jazz Tage_. He thinks of the Veltins-Arena and the matches he watched there as a boy and of the house he grew up in. He hopes he never forgets to miss it because what Cristiano just said—Mesut thinks that’s the saddest thing in the world.

 

And just like that, just when Mesut’s just getting in the swing of things, the middle of December comes and everyone’s getting ready to head home for the holidays. Mourinho and the other trainers give them lists, massive lists of what they can and can’t eat, of what workouts they have to do and of dates when they need to be back.

Kaká throws an early Christmas party—nondenominational, the invite says, but it’s _Kaká_ —and the whole squad goes. Caroline’s there and she’s gorgeous, walking around and talking to everyone. She’s just as nice, just as generous as Kaká, too—nothing but warm smiles and open arms. Mesut thinks she floats.

He’s sitting on the couch with Sami as Sami teaches Raúl German curse words. Raúl’s accent is terrible, but it’s nice for a change, not being the one to have to try so hard.

“Why do you need to know these?” Mesut leans forward to look around Sami, and Raúl shrugs.

“I’ve got some things to take care of,” he says, and Mesut just shakes his head, okay, then. “Alright, give me some other ones.”

“Okay, well, there’s this,” Sami says, “but it’s really, _really_ rude.”

“I want to know it anyways,” Raúl says.

“ _Sie sind eine haarige Ziege,_ ” Sami says, and Mesut almost spits out his drink. Calling someone a hairy goat—it makes Mesut wonder what else Sami’s been teaching him; maybe he should have paid more attention.

He hears Cristiano laugh from across the room, and when Mesut looks over, Cristiano’s got one hand around Kaká’s shoulders, the other on his chest. They’re both wearing ridiculous sweaters, both looking good anyways. Mesut’s a little bit envious of that; his eyes.

He watches them for a minute. He thinks about how Cristiano never mentions it, never says a thing. He thinks about how you could know someone for months and months, or for your whole life, and never really know them.

Kaká laughs at something Cristiano says and then untangles himself from Cristiano’s arms. He makes a gesture like _later, later_ , and then Mesut watches as he wanders around the room, making his rounds. And he knows that it’s wrong, but when Kaká gets to his side of the room, Mesut moves.

He manages to avoid Kaká for a while, although he doesn’t know why he wants to. He likes Kaká, genuinely _likes_ him, but he just doesn’t want to talk to him.

Turns out it doesn’t really matter either way, because Kaká corners him in the kitchen when he’s getting more water.

“Thank you for coming,” Kaká says, and the fact that it’s the first thing he says to Mesut and that he really, truly means it—that’s so _Kaká_.

“Thank you,” Mesut says, “for, uh—inviting me.” It takes him a minute to find the word.

“Yes, of course, of course!” Kaká says. “I can’t believe it’s almost January. Are you going home for the break?” And he does that same thing that Cristiano did at first, talking slowly but not talking down. It’s still a nice thought, even though Mesut doesn’t really need it as much anymore.

“Yes,” Mesut says. “And then coming back for training.”

“Training,” Kaká says, and his smile is so wistful. “I can’t wait.”

“Having you and Cristiano together again will be good. No one will catch us.”

Kaká laughs, says, “Thank you,” and, “I’m really looking forward to playing with you.” Mesut feels his face flush, and even though it’s just Kaká, it’s still _Kaká_. “Cristiano says you’re only going to keep getting bigger.”

“But that’s—that’s Cristiano,” Mesut says. He’s still uncomfortable with getting so much of that kind of attention because he doesn’t feel right correcting people, saying, “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for God,” and “I’ll only ever be as good as He wills.” So Mesut just does what he knows and shifts the attention away from himself.

Kaká laughs.

“Cristiano,” he says. “He’s different from what most people think he’s like. Kinder, more generous.”

“I know,” Mesut tells him.

“I know you do,” Kaká smiles. “That’s why I like you.”

And it’s only then that Mesut gets it. With Kaká’s eyes on him and his smile so honest, his stance so open, Mesut understands why Cristiano likes Kaká so much. There aren’t a lot of people like Kaká out there.

 

Mesut leaves around eleven and Sami gets home a little bit later, after Mesut’s already showered and stretched and changed into some old sweats.

“That was nice, don’t you think?” Sami says as he’s searching through the kitchen cabinets for a cup. “Everyone getting to just be together, no football—not that I mind the football.”

“Yeah,” Mesut says. He’s sitting on a barstool, his legs swinging. It was nice. He likes everyone, Ángel especially, but they never really talk aside from at practice or matches, or when they’re in the locker room, so it was a nice change.

“Did you see Marcelo knock over that lamp? I thought he was going to cry,” Sami says, and Mesut laughs. “He had a bit to drink, though, so I guess—I don’t know. It was hilarious though.”

“If all that’s broken is one lamp, Kaká’s lucky,” Mesut says.

“Yeah,” Sami agrees. “I like him. Kaká, I mean. He’s real nice and everything, even when he’s telling Cristiano off for being too loud. I can’t wait until he’s on the pitch with us. Seeing all his trophies and awards and all his traded jerseys and stuff—it’s like I forgot how good he was because he’s not playing, and now all of a sudden I remember.”

Mesut thinks of Cristiano’s hand on Kaká’s chest, of the way Cristiano’s eyes crinkle at the corner as he smiles up at Kaká.

“He’s alright,” Mesut says. He rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms and then heads to bed. He’s tired and has an early flight.

 

Mesut goes home for the holiday season. It’s nice; he’s missed his parents, missed his brother and missed Germany. Seeing everything covered in a layer of snow is nice, too; quiet.

His room at his parent’s house is exactly how he left it and he flops down on his bed, stares at the stucco ceiling for a while. The best part about being back in Germany, Mesut thinks, is being _away_ from Spain. He needs—he needs to think.

Marko’s in town for most of Mesut’s visit and Mesut is infinitely grateful. Marko is someone who just _gets_ it, just gets Mesut and football and life, and it’s nice not having to explain things, especially when you don’t have the words.

They go out the second night Mesut’s back—first night is with his family, always, of course—to some restaurant, nothing fancy, just average. Marko asks how Madrid is and Mesut says shrugs and says, “Good,” and then Mesut asks how Werder Bremen is faring and Marko rolls his eyes and says, “Good,” and there’s a whole conversation, right there.

When the food comes, Marko’s meal comes with _Badische Schupfnudeln_ and Mesut snatches a few off his plate.

“Every time I see these, all I can think of is _milho frito_ now,” Mesut says.

“Think of _what_?” Marko asks, and Mesut flushes, looks down, scratches the nape of his neck.

“Nothing, it’s—Portuguese food,” Mesut finishes lamely.

“Ah,” Marko says, and there’s another whole conversation, right there.

 

Christmas comes and Mesut doesn’t do much that day because it seems like all of Gelsenkirchen is asleep or with their families, celebrating the holiday. So he sleeps in and his mother makes him hot chocolate when he gets up and then they all play Scrabble in the late afternoon. Mesut loses, does the worst by far, and his brother laughs and says that it’s because Mesut’s turning Spanish on them.

Later that night, Mesut calls Cristiano to wish him a Merry Christmas. The phone rings and rings and when he gets prompted to leave a message, Mesut is caught totally unprepared.

“Um, hi, Cristiano, it’s Mesut. I guess I just wanted to say—oh, right, Spanish, right—” and Mesut has to take a minute to remember how to speak it. “I just wanted to say _Feliz Navidad_ , Cristiano. So, um. _Feliz Navidad_. I’ll see you in a few days. Bye.”

Once he hangs up, though, Mesut starts to feel weird about even calling in the first place. He’s not calling anyone else on his team.

He tries not to think about it.

 

Mesut gets back to training and it’s like he never left. Or maybe it’s glaringly obvious that he was gone because he comes back and he’s _on_ , doing better than ever and feeling on top of his game.

The first game back is against Getafe and it goes well, so well. His passes are on target and his feet are fast. The first time he scores, it’s a quick shot from the top of the box and he slides on his knees at the cameras and the stands in celebration. His team surrounds him and arms are slung around his shoulders and waist, hands are touching his head. He thanks Ángel for the pass and God for everything else.

The second time he scores, he isn’t actually expecting to score. He’s hovering closer to mid than he is to the goal and when the ball gets to him, he notices that the keeper is off his line and so Mesut fires a lob, only meaning to catch him a little off guard and teach him a lesson about coming too far out, but he doesn’t actually expect it to go in. It does and Mesut wants to laugh. He feels happy and light and is subbed off in the seventieth for Kaká to get his first minutes back in La Liga. They win, 2-0.

After the game, Cristiano tells him, “Good match tonight,” and his hand is heavy on the back of Mesut’s neck. Mesut wants to say, “You too,” and it’s on the tip of his tongue because Cristiano always does well, but then he remembers that Cristiano only took three shots, two of them on goal, and so Mesut just says “Thank you” instead.

 

Cristiano walks with him into the locker room one day after practice, when the air’s cold and everything outside is still, quiet.

“What’s your favorite place in Madrid?” he asks. 

“The Bernabéu,” Mesut answers. He doesn’t even need to think about it. Cristiano laughs. 

“Besides the Bernabéu,” he says. 

“I don’t know. My apartment, maybe? The Valdebebas wave pool?” 

And then Cristiano gets quiet, looks at Mesut for a second and says, “Haven’t you explored the city at all?”

Mesut says, “No. I haven’t had time,” and it’s at least half true. 

So Cristiano smiles, claps Mesut on the back, and says, “That’s not allowed. Tell Sami I’ll take you home.” Mesut understands that he doesn’t have much of a say in the matter.

After they shower and pack up, they head out to Cristiano’s car and Mesut says, “Madrid isn’t your city.”

“It is now,” Cristiano says. “It’s not where I’m from, but it’s my city now. I am a Madridista. I am from Madeira, yes, but it matters where I am now, too.”

And Mesut—Mesut had never thought of it like that, had always thought _Germany, Germany, Germany_. It’s strange, to know that he can think of it differently, that it’s allowed.

The car ride is mostly silent and it takes a while, but Mesut doesn’t mind. He’s tired from practice and rests his forehead against the cold glass of the passenger-side window and listens to Cristiano sing along to the radio underneath his breath. It’s all stuff Mesut would never listen to, never in a million years, but it’s nice, hearing Cristiano sing like that. It’s not for show.

Mesut’s only shaken from his thoughts when Cristiano pulls up the parking break.

“We’re here,” he says, and Mesut looks around. It’s some sort of estate or other, but Mesut can tell by the signs that are everywhere that it’s a public thing, something for tourists.

“We are?” Mesut asks.

“Yes,” Cristiano says. “El Capricho Park. It’s always empty, I never know why. This is my favorite place in all of Madrid.”

“Oh,” Mesut says, and then without thinking adds, “I thought you were taking me shopping.”

Cristiano laughs, says, “Did you want me to?” and Mesut’s blushing like crazy, can’t believe he said that, says, “No, no, I’m fine. I just—never mind.” Cristiano laughs even more.

They wander for a while, the sun hanging low in the sky, and Cristiano tells Mesut what he knows.

“This used to be a bull-fighting ring,” he says, and Mesut can see his breath. “This is just a _laberinto_. I got lost in there for three hours once; I don’t want to do it again.” Mesut laughs, says okay, understands the Spanish even though he’s never heard that word before because it’s close enough to Labyrinth and if there’s anything Spanish has taught him, it’s how to fill in the gaps.

And so they walk along the trails and through the trees, hands in pockets, their feet crunching on grass and twigs and dead leaves. Mesut likes it, really likes it. There’s no one and nothing, just him and Cristiano, and it’s oddly calming. He feels—he feels together again, in one piece, for the first time in a long time. Maybe it’s the nature, maybe it’s not. Mesut’s not really too worried either way.

And then off in the distance, up this slight hill, Mesut sees it. It’s just a garden pavilion, small and with a lot of columns, but Mesut asks anyways.

“What’s that?”

And Cristiano smiles, smiles real big, and hits his shoulder against Mesut’s.

“That’s why we’re here,” he says. “That’s why I come here. Come on.”

As they walk, Mesut says, “I like it here.” He doesn’t know what else to say but strangely feels the need to say something.

“Me too,” Cristiano tells him, and then they’re there, inside the pavilion and sitting down along its edges. There’s a statue in the middle of someone Mesut doesn’t recognize, but it’s beautiful nonetheless. He doesn’t come to places like this often, or ever, really. 

“This is the Temple of Bacchus. I come here to think, sometimes,” Cristiano says. “I like the architecture.”

Mesut nods, says, “It’s quiet. I understand.”

“Are you very religious, Mesut?” Cristiano asks, and the question comes out of nowhere, seems like it has an obvious answer to Mesut.

“You see me pray before every game,” he says.

“I know,” Cristiano says, “but you never talk about it.”

Mesut shrugs, looks out at the trees and up at the sky and says, “It’s a big part of my life, but it’s not everything.”

“Kaká talks about his religion all the time,” Cristiano says. Mesut doesn’t like the feeling he gets after hearing that.

“I’m not Kaká,” Mesut says, and he looks Cristiano right in the eyes when he says it. Cristiano smiles at him and then looks away, eyes focused back on the statue.

“Trust me, I know.”

Things get even quieter after that, neither one of them quite willing to break the silence that follows, and they leave shortly afterwards. Cristiano drops him back home and Mesut recognizes what that day had meant, what Cristiano taking him there had meant, and so right before he gets out of the car he says, “Thanks, Cristiano,” and he hopes that Cristiano gets it.

 

Mesut is on the phone with Benzema when Sami and Sergio walk through the door.

“And you’re _sure_ you refrigerated the batter for _at least an hour_?” Benzema asks. Mesut’s in the kitchen trying to make crepes. He wedges the phone between his ear and his shoulder so he can wipe his hands on a dish towel.

“Yes, I’ve said yes six times already,” Mesut tells him.

“Okay, so then put a bit of batter on the pan and cook it for thirty seconds,” Benzema says. “Then flip the crepe and cook it for ten. _Just ten_.”

“Thirty seconds, ten seconds. Okay,” Mesut says, and it’s only then that Sami and Sergio seem to notice that he’s cooking because they pile into the kitchen saying, “Crepes, awesome,” and, “Make me some?”

“Okay, now,” Benzema says, “the best way to eat them is—well, you take an orange, right—”

“Actually, I’m good,” Mesut says. “I’m just going to put Nutella on them.” Benzema makes a noise in the back of his throat that sounds like he’s dying.

When Mesut hangs up, Sergio says, “I didn’t know Benzema could cook. Let’s make fun of him for being a housewife tomorrow.”

“Oh, he can’t,” Mesut says. “His sister’s visiting, though, and she told him because I asked.”

“Fair enough,” Sami says, and he grabs one of the crepes that are cooling on a cutting board. He puts Nutella on it, passes it to Sergio, and then begins to make another one. “Thanks for the crepes, by the way.”

“And the Nutella,” Mesut adds.

“Yeah, that too,” Sami says. “Want to watch a movie with us? Sergio brought some Spanish ones, not just American ones with Spanish voices.”

“I didn’t know they made those,” Mesut jokes, and Sergio acts all affronted, saying, “Hey, now! Sorry we can’t all make _Run, Lola, Run_ ,” and he jogs in place, motioning up and down with his hands as if he had breasts. “Great cinema, that.”

Mesut finishes the batter by making one last crepe and asks, “So what are you watching?”

“I brought two, actually,” Sergio says. “One with, uh, that guy—Viggo Mortensen—called _Alatriste_. Historical, a lot of fighting and people dying and stuff, and then this other one called _Flamenco_ which is really interesting because the dancing—”

“We’re watching _Alatriste_ ,” Sami interrupts, and Mesut shrugs, _Sure, why not_.

Thirty minutes in, though, and Mesut’s thinking maybe they should have gone with _Flamenco_. This Spanish is fast, hard to understand, and by focusing so hard he loses out on being entertained.

“What the hell does that mean?” Sami asks, throwing a hand out at the screen. “ _Your life is no longer worth June_. You Spanish are messed up.”

Sergio laughs, almost chokes he’s laughing so hard, and it takes a while before he’s finally able to get out, “A _fig_. It’s ‘Your life is no longer worth a _fig_.’ _Un higo_ , not _Junio_.”

Mesut shrugs, comes to Sami’s defence.

“I don’t know, I heard _único_ ,” Mesut says. “Maybe you guys should speak slower.” 

Sergio gets a kick out of that one, speaks slow and like a robot for the rest of the night until he leaves with an “ _Has-ta. Ma-ña-na._ ”

 

The next few matches carry on to the same tune: Mesut starts, scores, and is subbed off late second half for either Diarra or Pedro. Cristiano shoots, misses; shoots, misses; shoots, misses. Mesut doesn’t get _used_ to seeing the hunch in Cristiano’s shoulders, the face he makes or the way he laces his fingers behind in disbelief, but he does become familiar with it.

 

Mesut understands that Cristiano is going through a dry spell in terms of scoring—he’s been there himself and he’ll be there again. 

He watches Cristiano stomp around and keep to himself, snapping at anyone and everyone—even Mesut—for the smallest of things. He gets into intense and often very loud Portuguese debates with Mourinho, and even though Mesut doesn’t know Portuguese, he can tell by Pepe’s face that whatever’s being said isn’t good. 

At first, Mesut and the rest of the team are content to let him sulk, but then he catches the little things—the way Higuaín always passes to Cristiano, even if Mesut’s open too, and the way that Iker starts picking him as a stretching partner when he usually stretches with Jerzy, and the way that Sergio calls him _Mistah Madridista_ as if to remind Cristiano, _we still want you, we still need you_ —and Mesut wonders if maybe he’s the only one who’s not doing anything.

So he walks up to Cristiano one day after everyone’s showered and is getting dressed. Cristiano’s only wearing pants when Mesut says to him, “Cristiano, hey—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Cristiano says, shoving his arms through the sleeves of his shirt and accidentally slamming his locker with his elbow. He picks up his bag and his shoes and walks barefoot out of the locker room.

There’s a chorus of _ooooh_ s that goes around the room at first, but then those die out and everyone mostly just tells him that Cristiano just gets like this at least once a season and to let it go and that there’s nothing he can do. But Mesut can’t let it go. There has to be something.

 

Mesut has a dream that wakes him up in the middle of the night.

He dreams that there are jellyfish in the sky, floating along and moving as if they were underwater. Mesut loves them, touches them, lets them wrap their arms around his head, his body, his fingers and toes. It’s comforting, the feel of them; Mesut loves it, welcomes it, and as he’s standing there on the streets of Madrid with Cristiano, the jellyfish start tugging on him, pulling him up and into the sky.

“Mesut!” Cristiano yells, and Mesut smiles at him as his feet leave the ground. Sami’s waving at him, hanging halfway out of their apartment window, yelling, “Goodbye, Mesut!” and Cristiano’s still on the ground. He’s yelling something, but Mesut doesn’t know what because he’s too high off the ground to hear, moving farther, up, up, and away.

When he wakes up, he has to guzzle a glass of water before he’s able to fall back to sleep. 

 

The next night, Mesut knocks on Cristiano’s door, juggling one of the footballs he found in Cristiano’s front yard as he waits. When Cristiano answers, he waits a beat and then says, “No, Mesut,” and, “I’m not in the mood.”

Mesut just looks at him and says, “Get in the car, Cristiano.” He gets halfway to the driver’s side door before he looks behind him, back to where Cristiano is struggling to slip on some sneakers in the doorway.

Neither of them talk in the car and that’s fine with Mesut; he understands what Cristiano’s feeling just as well as Cristiano does. It doesn’t take long for them to get there, to the darkened, run-down pitch where Cristiano fixed Mesut when he was the one broken.

“What are we doing here?” Cristiano asks. He already knows, Mesut knows he does, but he answers Cristiano anyways.

“If you’ve forgotten how to score,” Mesut says, “I’m going to remind you. Now get out of the car.”

It turns out to be harder to right Cristiano, to cheer him up, than Mesut had expected. It makes sense in hindsight—Cristiano is used to being great, needs to be great, and anything less is unacceptable.

They fight for the ball a lot. They bump shoulders, grab shirts, and shove each other as they race up and down the pitch, and none of it would be allowed in a real match, but there’s no referee and neither of them complain. It’s dirty, aggressive football and nothing like the lighthearted games that they played when Mesut was down. But that was what Mesut had needed, and it’s not what Cristiano needs, not now, and Mesut knows that.

Later, when they’re sweaty and bruised and exhausted, Cristiano flops on the ground and Mesut lies next to him. His hair is sweaty, sticking to his forehead and a little bit in his eyes, but he doesn’t mind. He watches Cristiano’s chest, his shirt stuck to his skin, rising and falling with each breath.

“Do you ever worry?” Cristiano asks. “That you’re not good enough?” 

“You’re good enough,” Mesut tells him. And Cristiano doesn’t say anything, is quiet for a long time, but sometimes people just need to think, and Mesut knows that. So he just lies there in the dirt with Cristiano, shoulder to shoulder, and he doesn’t say anything either. 

Later, though—later, Cristiano says, “Thank you,” and that’s enough for Mesut.

Only then—only then Cristiano’s propping himself up on his elbow and he’s leaning over and he’s close, so close, and Mesut can’t breathe, just looks at Cristiano and the angles of his face.

“Okay?” Cristiano asks, and Mesut just looks back and forth between his eyes. He can’t find words, doesn’t know what they’d be even if he could, and Cristiano is just so _close_.

Cristiano leans forward and he kisses Mesut soft and restrained and nothing like Mesut had imagined and then told himself he didn’t want. But he does, he wants it, and so Mesut reaches a hand up and slides it behind Cristiano’s neck, pulling him tighter and closer and telling Cristiano, _Okay, okay._

And then—then it’s like Cristiano changes, he stops being scared or worried or self-conscious and he kisses Mesut, really kisses him, and Mesut kisses back, just as hard. Cristiano lines his body up against Mesut’s as they lie in the dirt and Cristiano’s skin tastes like sweat, like salt.

It all just becomes too much for Mesut, and he starts rocking his hips up against Cristiano’s. He’s hard and Cristiano is too, Mesut can feel it against his hip, and he tugs on the hair at the base of Cristiano’s neck.

Mesut rolls them over so that he’s on top, and he sucks on Cristiano’s neck, pins down Cristiano’s hands by his head. Cristiano doesn’t seem to mind, doesn’t struggle, just ruts his hips faster and harder against Mesut’s until they’re both coming in their shorts like schoolboys.

“Hey Mesut?” Cristiano says after a minute, and Mesut can hear that he’s still panting. He likes that sound, likes how it’s exactly the same and completely different from how he sounds after sprints.

“Yeah?”

Cristiano just smiles at him, says, “Nothing. Never mind,” and Mesut smiles back. 

They walk back to Mesut’s car when their legs aren’t quite so wobbly and Mesut kisses Cristiano again against the side of the car. When he drops Cristiano off back at his house, Cristiano looks at him for a long while without saying anything.

He settles for “Thanks, Mesut,” and, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” and then, with a flash of teeth, he’s gone, out of the car and up the front steps and inside.

 

Mesut wakes up the next morning and stretches in bed. He rubs his eyes and scratches his belly and it’s only then, when he feels the remnants of his come that he didn’t completely wipe off, that he remembers what happened the night before. It makes him smile.

Peeling off his clothes, he steps in the shower and lets the water beat down on the back of his neck. Last night was good, real good; _Cristiano_ was good, Mesut thinks. He thinks—hopes—that things won’t be awkward between them at practice that day, doubts any of it will be because it’s _Cristiano_ , and he’s _Mesut_ , and they don’t work like that.

And it’s not like—it’s not like the guys will know about it or anything, whatever _it_ is. And so Marcelo will still be his same stupid self and Iker will still be hands-on and Sergio will still be loud and Kaká will still—

Kaká.

Mesut hadn’t—Mesut hadn’t thought about him. So Cristiano is in love with Kaká but… fooled around with Mesut? But then what does that make Mesut? A rebound? Someone who was just _there_ , and—and _willing_? Just a one night thing? And suddenly it doesn’t _matter_ how good it was, how good it felt, because Mesut shouldn’t have done anything, anyways. He’s not a stand-in, won’t be a replacement for anybody.

And Cristiano was in a bad mood, was upset, to make matters worse. So then what does _that_ make Mesut? Someone who takes advantage of his friends? And in his mind, all Mesut can see is him pushing Cristiano’s wrists into the dirt, him pushing Cristiano up against the car, and just how upset Cristiano was when Mesut first showed up at his house.

And all of a sudden, everything feels real heavy. Mesut gets out of the shower and puts on a pair of boxers. He tells Sami he doesn’t feel well. He goes back to bed.

 

When he wakes up, Sami’s sitting on his low dresser and eating a sandwich.

“I stole some of your Nutella,” he says. “Thanks, by the way.”

“Ngh,” Mesut says. Sun is streaming in through the window and almost blinding him, causing him to squint before he thinks enough to put up a hand to block the light.

“Mourinho asked for you today,” Sami says. “And so did Cristiano.”

“What did he say?” he asks.

“Who?”

And Mesut thinks on this, thinks carefully and weighs his options and then says, “Mourinho.”

“Not much.” Sami digs a chunk of Nutella and bread out from the roof of his mouth with his forefinger. “Just that he didn’t know you were sick and that you better get your ass to the team doctors. But Cristiano just said to tell you hi.”

“Oh,” Mesut says. “Okay.”

Sami looks like he’s thinking real hard for a minute and Mesut wants to joke that he shouldn’t hurt himself, but he doesn’t.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” Sami finally asks.

“What?”

“I know you’re not sick, Mesut. I’m not an idiot.” And it’s so tempting to tell him, just to get it off his chest, but Mesut knows it’s not a good idea, not at all, and so he lies.

“There’s this girl,” Mesut says, “that I hooked up with last night. I don’t know, I think she might be seeing someone, or maybe not. She was upset and I think I might have—I don’t know. I’m going to hell.”

Sami just looks at him and raises an eyebrow before saying, “You’re not going to hell,” and, “Everyone’s getting lucky but me. Even Cristiano got with someone last night who left him with a hickey the size of a golf ball.”

Mesut almost chokes and as Sami’s walking out of the room, he just says again, “I’m going to hell.”

“You’re not going to hell!”

 

Mesut takes out his phone and opens a text message to Cristiano.

_I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have._

Cristiano calls back right away, and Mesut lets it go to voicemail. Cristiano doesn’t leave a message.

 

He goes to practice the next day. He has to, he can’t not, and he spends the entire time trying to avoid Cristiano, tying and retying his boots, having intense and heated conversations with Canales about FIFA 11.

Cristiano tries to talk to him at the beginning of practice, but Mesut gets out of that one, too.

“Mesut,” he says when Mesut’s in the locker room pulling on a training jersey. “Look, I just wanted to—”

“Just a second,” he says, and then yells over Cristiano’s shoulder, “Sami!” followed by a string of German. He asks Sami about a restaurant near their house and if he remembered to run the dishwasher that morning, and he says it all in a really important and rushed manner, and then he jogs onto the pitch with him, leaving Cristiano behind. Iker scolds him for speaking German in practice later on, but it’s worth it because it gets him away from Cristiano and it’s not like anyone but Sami thinks he was freaking out about dirty silverware.

Cristiano doesn’t try to corner him again and it’s oddly… disappointing.

 

Their next match comes and goes. Mesut doesn’t score and neither does Cristiano. Mourinho pulls Mesut out in the sixty-third and two minutes later, Ángel guides the ball into the back of the net.

 

Sami is hanging in the living room with Ángel when Mesut wanders out of his room to get a glass of water. Sami asks him, “Want to go back to that German restaurant with us? I want to try to get that one waitress’s number.”

Ángel chimes in, “I told him he’d have no problem because he looks like a poor man’s Sergio Ramos, but...”

“Fuck you!”

“No thanks,” Mesut says, turning down the restaurant invite. “I’m kind of tired.”

He goes back to his room and he can hear Ángel ask Sami, “What wrong with him?”

Sami says, “Nothing,” but then must make a face or a gesture or something because then Ángel’s saying, “Oh. _Oh_ ,” and Mesut shuts his door.

While they’re gone, Mesut reorganizes his closet and sends an email to his father and replaces the laces in his boots. He wipes down the kitchen counter, plays solitaire on his computer, and goes through the junk mail pile. He reads a bit.

For all the nothing that he does, Mesut doesn’t sleep, can’t. His mind races and keeps him up and when he finally does fall asleep, he has strange dreams, some of which he remembers and some of which he doesn’t. 

It’s tiring.

 

They scrimmage in practice and Mesut purposefully avoids passing to Christiano. It’s childish, he knows. Instead he shoots and it goes wide—way, way wide.

“Özil, what the hell was that?” Mourinho yells. “Don’t make me ride your ass again! Five laps, now. Let’s go!”

Mesut takes off slow and Cristiano kicks dirt with his toe.

 

Their next match comes and goes. Mesut doesn’t start and is only subbed on in the eighty-third minute. He doesn’t score; Cristiano doesn’t score. The doldrums.

 

There’s a knock at the door and Mesut answers it in sweats and socked feet.

“You’re really letting yourself go,” Sergio says. His hair is all slicked back and his shirt is halfway unbuttoned.

“You’re one to talk,” Mesut says. “Those are green pants.”

Sergio laughs loud—it’s the only way he can laugh, Mesut thinks—and asks, “Hey, you wanna come to this bullfight with us?”

“No thanks,” Mesut says. “I promised Lahm that we’d Skype.”

“Your loss,” Sergio says, and when they’re gone, Mesut watches _Die fetten Jahre sind vorbei_ and eats Nutella on wheat bread and trims his nails. He doesn’t talk to Lahm; Bayern Munich has a match, anyways, but Mesut doesn’t watch it.

He doesn’t sleep, either; still can’t. 

 

Mourinho, for all his faults, is very observant. He pairs them—him and Cristiano—together for stretches.

“Work it out,” he says, and that’s all he says, but there’s a very tangible threat hanging in the air afterwards.

“You want to go first?” Mesut asks Cristiano stiffly. Mesut can’t help but notice that he looks good.

“You can,” Cristiano says, and Mesut lies on the ground. He lifts his leg up a little and Cristiano grabs him by the ankle, pushes his leg back so his knee is in his chest. They don’t say anything, but when Mesut turns his head to the side, he can see Mourinho watching them, and Iker watching them, and Sami and Ángel and Sergio watching them. They all turn away the second they notice that Mesut is looking around.

“Switch,” Mourinho yells, and Cristiano puts Mesut’s leg down and grabs the other. Mesut has to try hard, really hard, not to focus on how close Cristiano is and what happened the last time and what he wishes was happening now.

And then finally:

“I miss being your friend,” Cristiano says.

“Me too,” Mesut tells him, but all he can think about is how hot Cristiano’s palm feels on his thigh.

“Can we go back to that?” he asks.

“Okay,” Mesut says, but he’s not so sure that they can.

 

Their next match comes and goes. Cristiano is a crossbar away from a hat-trick and Mesut is just falling apart.

 

Cristiano invites Mesut out with him one day, and Mesut figures that even though he’s exhausted, sluggish, they’re friends, that’s what friends _do_ , and so he goes.

“Shopping?” Mesut asks. “Seriously?”

“Well, you were disappointed before when I didn’t take you…” Cristiano says, and Mesut can’t tell if he’s joking or not.

“I wasn’t disappointed,” Mesut says, but Cristiano ignores him and walks into the Prada store.

Mesut feels out of place. He doesn’t know what to do in the store, or where to put his hands, or what to look at, and so he ends up just following Cristiano around. Cristiano tries on every pair of pants in the store and at least half of the shirts, and by thirty minutes in, Mesut’s yawning, begging for a way out.

“Okay,” Cristiano says. “You _child, okay_. Didn’t realize you skipped your daily nap. Let me buy these sunglasses and then we’ll go. I have something to show you, anyways.”

And that’s—sunglasses. He bought sunglasses. After all of that, and he leaves with one pair of sunglasses.

But that’s okay, doesn’t really matter, because Mesut may be tired from still not sleeping but at least then they’re leaving, out of the store and down the block. Cristiano leads him down some seedy side street and Mesut follows him, but he’s a little worried and a lot confused because Cristiano is wearing new shoes that he really likes and there’s nothing but oil spills and puddles down the entire road.

“Come on,” Cristiano says. “You’re going to like this.”

“So you’re not going to murder me?” Mesut tries to joke, and Cristiano ignores it in favor of opening some door with a little flashing neon sign over it that reads, _Records_.

Inside is—inside is what Mesut would jokingly say heaven looked like. There were wall-to-wall shelves filled with cds and old records and tour posters and even older turntables and mixers. Mesut stands in the doorway, overwhelmed.

“Well?” Cristiano says.

“I just—” Mesut says as he tries to find the words. “How did you even find this place?”

Cristiano shrugs. “I don’t know.”

And then Mesut’s off, wandering around the place and picking out the things he wants, the things he needs—too much stuff, but Mesut can’t say no. He finds some English stuff that he likes—The Rolling Stones, Rakim—and some German stuff, too— _Die Fantastischen Vier_ , MC Torch. It’s amazing, absolutely insane that a place like this even exists.

Cristiano sees what he’s planning to buy and tsks, gives him some Sade, some Elton John. Mesut makes no promises.

When they leave, Mesut’s on top of the world. He mentally notes where the store is so he can come back later and buy another turntable, and then he turns to Cristiano and says, “That place is amazing.”

Cristiano smiles and says, “I’m glad you liked it,” and Mesut feels something in the pit of his stomach that he can’t put a name to.

 

That night, Mesut doesn’t sleep. He listens to some of his records on real low, plugs his record player in and sets it on the floor next to his bed so that he doesn’t have to get up to flip the album or to put on a new one. His mind moves at about a million miles an hour thinking about everything and nothing—what he has to do the next day, if he remembered to put his dirty socks in the laundry, his family, Cristiano—and it’s only when he gives up and puts on the Sade album that he can relax. He doesn’t sleep—or at least, he doesn’t think he does—but his mind stills enough for him to just lie there, to just be.

 

Their next game is an away game and it goes exactly the way it always should considering they’re _galácticos_. Real Madrid dominates the stats sheet—possession time, shots on goal—and comes away with a 5-1 win. Iker’s mad, of course he is—“I’ve got to do better,” he says. “Even just one in the net ruins the win”—but everyone else is happy, celebrating.

And the fact that they won is good, too—even if it isn’t anything new—because Mesut’s supposed to give his first Spanish interview after the game. Nothing out of the ordinary, all predetermined questions so that he can plan out his answers.

“Tell us about the game, Mesut,” the reporter says. He’s standing close enough that their shirtsleeves brush.

“We played very well,” he says. “I don’t know, everything went well, the defense worked hard and made sure that we almost always had the ball up front. Ángel played great, he was real strong today. Quick feet.”

“And what about your teammates?” the reporter asks. “Do you get along?”

“Of course,” Mesut says. “Everyone gets along; there’s no fighting, nothing like that.” 

As Mesut finishes his sentence, someone taps him on the shoulder. He turns around but no one’s there, and when he turns back—Cristiano’s on his other side, and he’s smiling like he just pulled the wool over Mesut’s eyes.

“This guy,” Cristiano says, an arm around Mesut’s shoulder and one hand lightly pinching Mesut’s cheek. “This guy!” And then he’s laughing and walking away.

“What was that about?” the reporter asks, and Mesut has no choice other than to shake his head and say, “I have no idea.”

 

The bus ride back is long and Cristiano sits next to him, eager to dissect the game so that they can play like that all the time. Even though Mesut’s running on high from the match, he falls asleep about halfway into the trip, worn out from tough practices and sleepless nights. He vaguely registers the feeling of the bus coming to a stop when they must be back at the Bernabéu, and he thinks he hears Sami telling Cristiano that he was going out with the guys and Cristiano saying, “I’ll get him home, don’t worry about it.” And then, just as the last hazy stages of sleep are wearing away, someone shakes Mesut’s shoulder and says, “Mesut, come on, you can sleep some more in the car.”

Mesut stumbles blearily out of his seat and out of the bus and it’s only when Cristiano’s opening the passenger door for him that Mesut turns around, starts back to the bus saying, “My bag, I forgot my—”

“I’ve got it,” Cristiano says, and he hooks his thumb underneath the strap on his shoulder as if to prove it.

“Oh. Okay,” Mesut says, and he gets in the car. He’s in and out of sleep the entire way, the street lights flickering through his eyelids and painting everything a bright, bright white.

 

“Come on, Mesut, we’re here,” Cristiano says. His voice is low, not wanting to startle Mesut too much.

“Oh. Okay,” Mesut says, and he tries to get out of the car without unbuckling his seatbelt; Cristiano has to reach over and do it for him. “Okay,” Mesut says again. Cristiano follows him upstairs to his apartment and puts his bag down just inside the door.

“Alright, well I guess I’ll see you later,” Cristiano says, and Mesut nods absently. His head is still fuzzy and everything comes to him like he was hearing it underwater.

“I wish I could be Kaká for you,” Mesut says, and then shakes his head once the words are out of his mouth. He’s tired.

Cristiano smiles, small and sad, and he says, “I don’t want you to be Kaká.”

“I wish you did,” Mesut says, and he rubs his eyes hard with the heels of his hands. He doesn’t even wait for Cristiano to leave before he’s heading to his room and to his bed and to sleep.

 

When Mesut wakes up, it’s barely light out and he considers going back to sleep. He tries to, but he’s just not tired anymore and so he sits up and reaches for his laptop for something to do. The little clock in the corner tells him that it’s half past six at night and Mesut can hardly believe it—that he slept for so long, that he managed to sleep at all, that Sami hadn’t woke him up with an offer of whatever he was making for lunch.

The thought of lunch makes him hungry and Mesut wanders out of his room in his boxers, scratching absently at his belly as he tries to figure out what he wants to eat. He roots through the fridge and takes out a leftover container of black beans and rice and he eats it cold, standing over the sink.

Afterwards, Mesut decides to see what’s on tv and he heads out to the living room only to stop short because Cristiano is sitting on his couch, reading.

“Hi?” Mesut says to get his attention, and it comes out like a question.

“Hey,” Cristiano says. “I hope you don’t mind that I—Sami let me in on his way out, and I didn’t expect you to sleep that long.”

Mesut says, “I don’t, usually.”

“Yeah,” Cristiano says, and then he pauses with his mouth open like he wants to say something but doesn’t quite have the words. 

And it’s then—it’s only then that Mesut remembers what he said the night before, the stuff about Kaká, and he feels himself freeze up because he wasn’t supposed to say those things, not ever, not even to himself.

“I don’t want to be your friend anymore,” Cristiano says, and that—

“Oh,” Mesut says, and he jerks back as if he’d been hit. He hadn’t—hadn’t expected this.

“I don’t—I don’t mean that,” Cristiano says, and his voice is softer this time. He drops his head in his hands and scrubs at his face with his palms. 

“Okay,” Mesut says, but he doesn’t get it, doesn’t get any of it.

“You were right, you know, when you said that I loved quietly,” Cristiano says. “But I think that maybe I—maybe I love _too_ quietly. Maybe I love so quietly that no one can hear it.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Mesut says, because it’s not, not at all.

“Maybe,” Cristiano says. “But that’s what it means now.”

Mesut walks over and sits next to him on the couch. For a long while they don’t say anything, they just stare at the tv and watch an old match on mute. It’s the Champions League Final from 2005 and Jerzy gets his famous double block against Andriy Shevchenko.

“I think this is the most beautiful game of football ever played,” Mesut says, breaking the silence. “And look at Jerzy now; warming the bench.”

“Footballers get old. It happens, things end,” Cristiano says.

“I know. Doesn’t make it any less sad.”

“I like Kaká,” Cristiano says, eyes on the screen. “But he’s like a brother to me now. I’m not in love with him.”

“Okay,” Mesut says. He can’t think.

“If I—if I kiss you again, will you hate me for it tomorrow?”

And Mesut doesn’t know what to do, what to say, so he just leans forward and kisses Cristiano, real light at first because he can’t believe this is happening a second time and then hard enough that their teeth clack together and their noses bump when he shifts.

Mesut leans forward, pressing Cristiano against the arm of the couch with his body. Cristiano doesn’t object, just slides an open palm from Mesut’s stomach to his hip, stroking his thumb along the skin there, back and forth. Mesut pulls away.

“I’m half naked,” he says, and he says it to mean, _Give me a second, let me put some clothes on_ , but then Cristiano stands and takes off his shirt as well, tosses it aside, and Mesut changes his mind.

Mesut reaches out because Cristiano’s right in front of him and he can’t not. He closes his fingers around Cristiano’s belt buckle. 

“Are you sure?” Mesut asks, and Cristiano laughs lightly, bucks his hips as if to say _yes_.

“I’m not the one who had a problem last time,” he says.

“I know, but last time I felt like I—like maybe you were—” and Mesut doesn’t know how to say it, or maybe he does and he just doesn’t want to. Cristiano gets it anyways.

“No,” he says, “I just—I like it like that.” He looks away, at the wall over Mesut’s shoulder, and Mesut thinks that this is the closest to embarrassed that he’s ever seen Cristiano. But it makes sense to Mesut, what he said. Cristiano is always in charge, always has so much pressure weighing down his shoulders; it makes sense that he would just want to let that go.

“Okay,” Mesut says, and he pulls Cristiano to him by the belt buckle. When he’s close enough, Mesut kisses his hips and the dips of muscle right above the tops of his jeans. Cristiano threads his fingers through Mesut’s hair and that makes Mesut realize how long it has gotten.

“I’ve thought about you,” Cristiano says, and Mesut groans.

“Not here,” Mesut says. “Come on, my room is just—Sami might—” and Mesut leads them stumbling into his room, his hand still around Cristiano’s belt, where he then pushes Cristiano back until his knees hit the bed. He reaches down, undoes Cristiano’s belt and the button of his jeans, lowers the zipper and says, “Take off your pants.”

Cristiano does, listens to Mesut without saying a word, and then they’re both standing there, Mesut in his boxers and Cristiano in briefs. Mesut reaches out, runs his fingertips down Cristiano’s chest; he can’t believe that he gets to see Cristiano like this.

“And those,” Mesut says, nodding to the last article of clothing that Cristiano is wearing. “Mine too.” Cristiano races to do it and Mesut wants to laugh a little at how Cristiano is eager, is always so eager to score, whether it’s on the pitch or off.

Mesut can see that Cristiano’s not fully hard yet, so he reaches forward and takes Cristiano’s hand in his and wraps their fingers around Cristiano’s cock, Mesut’s hand on the outside so that Cristiano is just jerking himself off, Mesut not touching him, his hand close, so close.

He stops before Cristiano comes, and Cristiano lets out a strangled groan, says, “ _Mesut_ ,” and “ _Please_ ,” but Mesut just says no. He puts a hand on Cristiano’s shoulder, pushes him down to kneel on the carpet before sitting on the edge of the bed and jerking his own cock once, twice, three times.

“Suck,” Mesut says, and he can’t believe the word is even coming out of his mouth, can’t believe that Cristiano’s listening to him, taking him into his mouth with one hand wrapped around the base of Mesut’s cock, the other on Mesut’s thigh.

When he finally comes, it’s with a hand on the back of Cristiano’s head, holding him in place. As he waits for his heart rate to slow and for his head to stop spinning, Cristiano rests his forehead against Mesut’s leg and Mesut looks down at him.

“I love your eyes,” Cristiano says. “They were the first thing that I liked.”

“No, you don’t,” Mesut says, and he runs a thumb along Cristiano’s bottom lip; Cristiano bites down on it.

“ _You_ don’t,” he says, “but I do.”

“Come up here,” Mesut says, and Cristiano uses Mesut’s knees to help himself up and they both lay back on the bed together, kissing. It’s nice, relaxing, and Mesut jerks Cristiano off, long and drawn-out as they lay there.

Later, Cristiano asks why Mesut’s record player is on the floor.

“I had a hard time sleeping,” Mesut says. “I heard music helped.”

Cristiano leans over Mesut and drops the needle on the album. When Sade fills the room, he laughs, says, “Not bad, eh? I told you.”

Mesut presses his face into Cristiano’s neck and says, “Don’t.”

“I did, though.”

Mesut smiles against Cristiano’s skin and says, “I know.”

 

The next morning they find Cristiano’s shirt folded neatly on one of the barstools in the kitchen. Sami’s not there but his dirty breakfast plate is in the sink and his bedroom door is open, the blinds in his room having been pulled back to let the morning sun in.

It takes them a while to get ready for practice; they shower together and then Cristiano has to stop by his place for some of his things, but they make it there on time, just as everyone is beginning to file out of the locker room.

“At least you’re not late,” Iker says as he heads out. “But still, hurry up.”

“Yeah,” Marcelo says. “Slackers.” And then he darts forward and slaps Mesut lightly in the face. Mesut catches him before he can get more than a few steps away, though, and throws him in a headlock. Cristiano laughs and uses both his hands to tap Marcelo on each of his cheeks, again and again, light enough slaps that it barely makes a sound.

“You _guys_ ,” Marcelo whines. “Come on. I said I was sorry.”

“No, you didn’t,” Mesut says, but he lets him go anyways.

“That’s cause I’m not,” Marcelo says, and they can hear him laugh as he races out the door.

 

The reporter asks him all sorts of things at his next interview, when it’s official and sit-down and not just conducted on the pitch. They want to know about how he likes the team, what his favorite restaurants are, how hard it was to learn Spanish. They ask about Mourinho and practices and matches and about how Mesut’s been playing.

“So you like Madrid, then?” she asks.

“Yes,” Mesut says. “Madrid is—” and he pulls a face, one that says that he loves it but can’t quite describe it, and she laughs.

To Mesut, Madrid is football. Madrid is the Bernabéu, _Los Blancos, madridismo_. It is the way Xabi stands as he waits to take a corner, the noise that Iker makes when he claps his gloved hands, the way Sergio slicks back his hair with water during practice.

To Mesut, Madrid is watching Gol Televisión with Sami, falling asleep to Sade, and playing on old public pitches. Madrid is _milho frito_ with Cristiano, late nights and early mornings with Cristiano, skin against skin in bed with Cristiano.

Madrid is nothing and Madrid is everything, how sunlight falls on the buildings and how the Madrileños welcome him.

Mesut breathes, and Madrid is.


End file.
